The Strings Inside
by Linneam
Summary: With those words, James' world ceased to be. They were gone. His parents were gone, and his only remaining option was to lock away every memory, every feeling, and, in that moment, every thought. Because of this he was certain: if he allowed himself to think, even for a moment, every thread holding him together would snap, and he very well might find himself irreparably broken.


**Hello. It's been a while since I've been in the Harry Potter realm of Fanfiction, so I suppose you could say this is my comeback. This is set in the Marauders' seventh year, just after the death of James' parents. I will do my best to keep updates regular, and I am beyond excited to be writing again. Please note: this is the prologue, and it is intended to be significantly shorter than my chapters. So don't judge too harshly on length yet. :)**

**Thanks! I hope you enjoy reading, and I would love to hear your thoughts.**

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Even before he'd heard himself, owls had begun delivering The Daily Prophet, where the intimacies of his life were splayed out for all to see:

**August 20, 1978  
****HEAD OF DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT AND WIFE FOUND DEAD.  
****With no next of kin, scarcely of-age son to inherit family estate.**

It had all been so backwards. For the first time of the summer, rather than the Marauders coming to his house, James had gone to Remus'; his parents had wished him a safe evening and hugged him too tightly, as if he might never return. He'd had a blast with the others, playing Quidditch and poking fun at Peter, and eventually, they'd all fallen asleep amidst an array of parchment, each sheet covered in the scratchy outline of a half-finished scheme.

He awoke to a pair of grey eyes fixated on him. The room filled with an eerie silence, broken systematically by his breaths and the wringing of Sirius' shaking hands around the crumpled newspaper.

"Whatimissit, Padfoot?" he grumbled sleepily, his world still too foggy to take in the details he would later identify as strange: they were alone; the room was fully lit by the overbearing sun seeping through the window; and strangest of all, his best friend's eyes were steely and red-rimmed.

When Sirius supplied no answer, all of the other details shifted slowly into focus, and panic settled heavily in James chest, constricting his breath slightly and seizing his thoughts. "What's wrong?"

Sirius' arms extended the paper towards him, opening and closing his mouth and immediately drawing the Prophet near himself again. "I- You can't find out from the Daily Prophet. But I don't know how to-"

"What can't I find out?" James asked, the fear inside him swelling against his chest. "Padfoot."

Sirius' adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, and when he opened his mouth again, his words were gentle. "Last night, a little after midnight, the Dark Mark was cast over Godric's Hollow, over your house… There was evidence of a struggle, and your parents… It was an ambush, and they took three Death Eaters with them, but they… James, they didn't make it."

In that moment, James' world ceased to be. Later, he would remember immediately excusing himself from the Lupin household, promising to call if he needed anything and flying numbly through the humid August sky towards a house that would never again feel like home. He would remember stepping onto their vast lawn, just outside the city, and collapsing at the sight of the still-open front door. And though he would later swear it hadn't been that bad, he would remember the agonizing screams that issued from his chest and the bruises that graced his swollen knuckles for days from his attack on the dry earth that sunny Sunday morning.

He closed many doors in his life that day, the first being the front door as he walked away from Godric's Hollow without ever stepping foot in the house. That night, he checked into the Leaky Cauldron for the remainder of his summer and began the tedious process of locking away every memory, every feeling, and in that moment, every thought. Because, of this he was certain: if he allowed himself to think, even for a moment, every thread holding him together would snap, and he very well might find himself irreparably broken.


End file.
